


Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Apologies, Forgiveness, Friendship, Guilt, Humor, M/M, Set after Sidewinder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 22:25:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18583822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: After Sidewinder, Blue Team gained a member, Red Team lost one.Both teams need to deal with the fact.In which Wash is introduced to the terms: Grimmons, Emotional Constipation, and Contingency Plan #9.





	Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.  
> -Stealers Wheels

 “At least you got the names right today,” Tucker said with a nod of approval. “Remember the time you called Sarge for Captain?”

Wash didn't wince, but he did remember the first confusing days where his head had hurt, his memories had been filled with ice and speckles of blood, and blue helmets had hovered above him when he managed to open his eyes. The following weeks had been filled with more loud voices and colors, and as consciousness (that was accompanied by a bone-deep soreness in every part of his body) gradually returned to him, his new settings had been explained to him.

He’d known their names before, of course, before it’d meant anything. But now his life consisted of meaningless colors and insults mixed with pointless banter and bedrest and two soldiers who suddenly looked up to him as a leader.

Wash knew he should be grateful to be alive at this point. And if he’d barely even deserved his life, he wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve this forgiveness. Acceptance. Even if it brought along headaches.

He still had much to learn, he knew, but he could feel the process that Tucker was teasing him with. With the new armor came a new title (and sometimes a new name if you asked Caboose) and he’d learned the names of his new teammates quickly; learned how they tasted in his mouth, how they sounded in a sigh or exclamation, how they pulled at the corners of his lips.

The Reds were still strangers, but he supposed that was the nature of this made-up war. Reds and Blues were like magnets; they stayed together, _fought_ together, and yet they had insisted on making two bases, each in the opposite end of the valley they’d claimed as their home for now.

But the Reds were still names he had to learn. It was a process from being the Red Simulation Troopers to suddenly being Sarge, Grif and Simmons. And Donut.

Wash stared into his coffee, hiding his frown from Tucker. “I’ll blame that on my concussion,” he said, and as he remembered the blur that had been the recent adjustments to his new life, he felt the need to add, “And Caboose’s bad influence.”

“The title comes with the wooden leg,” Caboose said with a nod. His gaze was intense from the other end of the room, as it’d been ever since Wash received the new armor.

“I thought Simmons was the one with a fake leg?”

“Hey, you’re nailing minor details now!” Tucker patted his back in pride. “Yeah, Simmons is the cyborg.”

Wash had learned not to be surprised by the absurdity that Tucker only described as minor details. “When I joined Blue Team I thought I’d joined the strange team,” he said, emptying his cup of coffee.

“What made you think that?” Caboose tilted his head in curiosity.

“No particular reason,” Wash said quickly, pressing his lips against the empty cup. “But now I think I might have been wrong.”

Tucker rolled his brown eyes. “Please. Red is a synonym for weird.” As he threw his legs on the table, leaning back in his chair, he held up his fingers to count the absurdities. “Sarge is your strange old bitter neighbor with a shotgun, Simmons is the cyborg, Grif is the Frankenstein’s monster. Grif and Simmons are couple, by the way.”

“Really?”

“It’s called Grimmons and we support it,” Tucker said in a tone so serious it seemed out of character.

“They do hang out a lot,” Wash said, wondering if he had lost the ability to feel surprised. The maroon and orange colors had always both been in view whenever he looked towards the opposite camp. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever talked with Grif without Simmons.”

He thought of the time he’d pointed a gun at Simmons and then quickly shoved the memory away, replacing it with the moments after the snow on Sidewinder. The first time he’d visited Red Base, standing behind Tucker who’d introduced him as their new leader. Grif peaking over Simmons’ shoulder. The time Wash had limped across the valley to ask Sarge to return the grenades. Grif telling him to go away, Simmons appearing on the roof, staring him down. Wash watching Grif talk with Caboose, unsure why, staring, keeping his questions to himself and instead just observing, then realizing he was the one being watched, a maroon soldier standing frozen in the distance, head snapping back and forth to keep an eye on both Grif and Wash.

To watch each other’s back just reminded him of the twins, but it was obvious that Grif and Simmons didn’t stay together to chit chat when he was there; they were there to ensure their team didn’t lose another member.

They refused to let the other face Wash alone.

The realization left Wash’s mouth dry. “Oh my god, I’ve never talked with Grif without Simmons,” he said again, voice dull this time.

“Is that something new?” Tucker asked with a snort. “Like I said, they must have married-“

“They don’t trust me.”

“No shit.” There was a pause where Tucker squinted, searching for something in Wash’s expression. “You did kill Donut.”

Wash knew how to take a hit. He was not going to deny the truth nor sugarcoat it. But with the bitter taste it left in his mouth, he swallowed and hoped it would become easier with time. “I did,” he said, standing up.

He heard Tucker leave the seat behind him. “Where the fuck are you going?” he called out, sounding as alarmed as the first time Wash had stumbled out of bed, calling for Maine.

“To apologize.”

“For what?” Tucker reached the doorway with a big leap, spreading his arms to block the path. “Dude, you can’t bring that up. I know you’re like taken out from a soap opera, tragic backstories and shit, but here we skip unnecessary emotions. If you don’t wanna be remembered as the trigger-happy Freelancer, maybe stop bring up the fact you killed someone.”

“They deserve an apology.”

“Donut does, sure, but that’s pretty hard now.” Tucker was the only one of them that winced despite how the words had come from his own mouth. He shook his head. “C’mon. Just drop it before someone starts to think about the fact that you’re probably an idiot. It’s Red Team – they’ll deal with it.”

From what little Wash had come to know of Red Team, they didn’t exactly strike him as forgiving. Or emotionally stable. “Are you sure about that?”

Tucker let out a grunt as he was shoved aside but he didn’t try to follow him. “It’s called emotional constipation and you can’t cure it,” he called out, and Wash felt his stare as daggers against his back. “Even if you have a stick up your ass!”

* * *

 The Reds sometimes reminded him a whack-a-moles. He only had to cough twice before two helmets appeared over rocks surrounding the base that Sarge had insisted on building himself. The invitation to share the abandoned military base had quickly been discarded by the Red leader.

He supposed he was lucky it wasn’t Sarge who was there to greet him with his shotgun.

Wash stared at the orange and maroon colors, figuring that things were going according to plan. So far. Maybe there were limits to hopefulness. The familiar pressure of guilt weighed down his shoulders, but he forced himself to open his mouth. “Hi!” he yelled, trying his best.

The two helmets turned to share a glance, then tilted down towards him again.

He could see the tips of his rifles. “I’m unarmed,” he said, holding his hands up to prove his words.

Orange – Grif – spoke first. “Dude, if you’re trying to go on suicide missions again, that’s the Blues’ problem. Leave us out of it.”

“I’m not here to get shot,” Wash said. “Or to shoot.”

“…I don’t think this canyon offers anything else. We ain’t a pizza takeaway!” Grif called out again after a moment of hesitation. Then, in a voice so low that it could barely be heard, a single word was added to his statement, “…Yet.”

“Drop it,” Simmons said, and Wash could sense the growing private argument grow between them. It was something that Wash wasn’t a part of, and if he didn’t want to listen to them for the next hour, he had to cut to the chase now.

“I want to apologize.”

The helmets turned towards again, the visors blank with shock. “Did you shit in our back garden or something?”

“About Donut.”

There was silence. Wash waited for it to pass, anticipating their response, only to realize there would be none. He opened his mouth again. “It was wrong. I made a mistake. And I know you have every reason to be wary of me.”

“Don’t sweettalk yourself,” Grif said, sounding too tense to make the remark snarky. “The Meta was way scarier than you.”

The Reds jumped down from the rock, keeping their rifles pointed towards him as they came closer.

“I can sense you don’t trust me. That’s understandable, but if we are to make any progress, the situation should be addressed.” Tucker’s warning echoed inside his head, but Wash was already here, talking, and he needed to be sure that he was heard. “I get that death is something new for you.”

“Speak for yourself; my grandmother died when I was five,” Grif yelled back him.

“…I’m sorry?” He shook his head, wondering when words had become this difficult. “Killing. Killing is a new concept for you-“

“You don’t know me. Maybe I grew up in the streets!” Simmons said, breaking his own silence.

“The street of the suburbs,” Grif snorted.

“Killing is a new concept for you,” Wash repeated himself, keeping his voice dull. “Despite the fact that you are soldiers in a war. Sort of.”

The orange helmet shook again. “Uhm, Church died. Like a lot.”

“Except those weren’t real deaths,” Simmons said.

“He’s gone now,” Grif said with a shrug.

There was silence again where the Reds looked away and Wash stared at them, wondering how this team dealt with loss. He’d witnessed Tucker and Caboose adjusting to the change, and that had been a process strange enough in itself.

Wash inhaled. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m so-“

“Wait, you’re one and we’re two, right?” Grif tilted his rifle back and forth between them as he counted.

Unable to deny the truth of math, Wash nodded. “Right.”

“Then we outnumber you, I guess,” Grif said. “And you’re not armed. Simmons, holy shit, did we just capture a Blue?”

Suddenly, as if someone had flicked a switch, they all became aware of the two rifles aimed at Wash.

“We have to tell Sarge!” Simmons exclaimed, sounding a bit too happy about the fact.

Keeping his eyes on the weapons, Wash slowly reached backwards to rub his neck. “Oh. I didn’t realize we were playing the, uhm, game.”

“We are,” Grif and Simmons said in unison.

“Oh,” Wash said, eying them. “Well, then-“

Tucker had explained the so-called war, the unsaid rules about fighting but never killing (with the occasional exception by the name of Caboose), how to practice your insults and avoid Sarge’s shotgun blasts.

He’d laughed at the thought of Wash joining their team, explaining how they would win all the matches from now on.

And now, fully recovered, Wash was ready to react by instinct, letting the years of training come to use. It may be a game, but their weapons were still aimed at him, and he needed to take away their advantage.

Before any trigger could be pulled, he rushed forward, grabbing the end of Simmons’ rifle and _pulling_ , causing the Red to stumble forwards. He hadn’t even managed to regain his footing before Wash had him pinned with his stolen rifle in his other hand.

He grinned behind his visor, imagining Tucker’s face when he would tell him of his win-

-and then he realized there was no amusement about this. Simmons had stiffened in his grip, as still as a statue, and Wash could almost feel the rushed heartbeat beneath his grip. When he looked away, he saw Grif’s rifle pointing straight at his helmet, finger at the trigger.

Wash let go, backing away as Simmons stumbled back towards his base. “Maybe it’s enough capture the flag for today,” Wash said.

The tension dissolved as Grif and Simmons stood next to each other again, a brief glance in the other’s direction before they stared down Wash again.

The Freelancer supposed it was time to admit failure and turned around to go through the walk of shame back to Blue Base.

 “What – you’re not even going to ask for our dignity this time?” Grif called out from behind him.

“Not today.” 

* * *

“How did it go?” Tucker asked without much interest in his voice.

The first thing that left Wash’ mouth was a sigh. Then came the admission of mistake. “I think I messed it up.”

Caboose’s heavy hand patted his shoulder. “I do that all the time. And then I try again. Because if you keep missing it up they can see you are really trying and you are just really, really, really bad at it.”

* * *

Declaring himself momentarily insane, Wash decided to follow Caboose’s advice the next day. While Tucker was in a heated argument with Sarge about whether or not gifting Caboose with grenades was a responsible action (it wasn’t) he slipped out of the shadow of Blue Base.

He’d seen the two colors in the nearby hill. They were unmoving, even as he snuck closer, and it took him a moment to realize that they weren’t dead – just napping in the shade.

He cleared his throat, crossing his fingers that they wouldn’t shoot around wildly in panic. Simmons sat up first, immediately shoving his elbow against Grif’s stomach to get his attention.

Grif still sounded sleepy as he spat towards Wash, “We still aren’t a pizza shop.”

“I know.”

“Fuck off.”

The tone wasn’t friendly, but Wash preferred to take harsh words over bullets.

“It’s just-“ He sighed again, remembering years of learning how to pick your battles, when to retreat. There’d been Agents more stubborn than him, Carolina most of all, but he needed to succeed at this. For his own sake. “I’ve never seen you two apart since we came here.”

“So?”

“It’s a good thing that you watch each other’s back,” Wash said. “But I need you guys to know that I will not pose a threat to you in the future.” Perhaps this speech would have been easier without yesterday’s incident.

He could feel Grif’s narrowed eyes through the visor. “Who says it has anything to do with you?”

Simmons nodded eagerly. “Yeah, maybe we choose to stay close to each other for completely different reasons.”

The level of aggression in their voices was surprising. “I, uh-“

“We do actually have free will, you know,” Grif said. “Maybe I choose to hang out with the nerd because he’s cool!”

“Yeah!” Simmons said.

“That is probably not the case!” Grif added. “But it is a possibility!”

“Yeah! Wait, what-“

But Simmons’ confusion was unnoticed by Grif who continued to glare at Wash. “Don’t flatter yourself, Freelancer.”

Wash kept backing away as he talked. “Okay. There’s nothing wrong with being a couple. You do yours. I- I should get going. I guess we’ve talked this through…?”

“Uhm, why did somebody just kick Sarge in the head?” Grif asked, looking behind Wash towards the Base in the distance.

Wash spun around, just in time to see the red still shape on the ground and Tucker being hauled inside by a stranger.

This place was supposed to be safe from the outside. Pressure tightened around Wash’s ribs and he fought the urge to leap down the hill, rushing into the situation to find the first one responsible to punch. But he had no team to back him up, and no knowledge of what would be waiting inside the base.

“What the fuck?” Simmons said, and his voice made Wash realize he wasn’t alone after all.

“I’ll head to the base,” he said without moving his glance. “I need you to distract them so-“

“Are we using Contingency Plan #9?” Simmons said, like a computer ready to complete the task. “Or #14?”

Wash blinked. “What?”

“Do we need the chicken suit or not?” Grif said in what he probably believed was a helpful manner.

“…What?”

“Wait, if this thing just a whole trust exercise? ‘cause it beats Sarge’s. Do you remember the fire thrower-“

Grif had already turned towards Simmons when Wash stepped in-between them. “ _Focus_ ,” he said and suddenly received several horrible flashbacks of when he’d been forced to drag Doc along on his mission. “We have to get to the others. I need someone to come with me. Simmons-“

“Why me?” Simmons asked.

Wash remembered how Simmons had frozen against his chest plate and how, what seemed like a long time ago, he’d been screaming after Wash had pulled his trigger…

No wonder he didn’t want to be alone with him.

“Okay. Right. Uhm….” He turned his head. “Grif.”

“Why him?” Simmons asked, just as alert as last time.

“I’m sensing some distrust here.”

“Absolutely not, you good for nothing _killer_.”

As much as he hated to prove Tucker right, Wash understood he’d accomplished nothing. But now he had more important matter to tend to. “I know I’ve been trying to have this talk all week, but can we procrastinate it a bit?” he said, and the bitterness was directed at himself. “We don’t split you guys up. If you go out there and keep their attention-“

“Why do we have to be bait?” Simmons asked him.

“I, uhm?”

“Why do we have to go out there and play chickens while you get to be the hero?” Grif asked, standing right behind Simmons.

_Red Team_ , Wash felt the need to sigh, and at the moment he felt more like a Blue than ever before. “I was not the one who brought up chickens,” he said.

“He’s a Freelancer,” Simmons spat as he raised his head. “And we’re just worthless Sim Troopers, cannon fodder, expendable waste of air-”

“Literally none of those words came from my mouth.” Wash sighed again. “If you trust me-“

“Eh,” both of the Reds said.

“I’ll be the distraction,” Wash promised in order to get moving. He was already moving down the hill, expecting the Reds to follow him. “But you two need to get inside the base and check on the others _now_.”

“Are you using plan #9?” Simmons asked, sounding strangely worried. “Where would you get the chicken suit from?”

“We’ll save that for next time,” Wash said, giving them one final nod before taking off down the hill.

He had to trust them not to fuck up.

It wasn’t easy. It was probably stupid. But it was his new life, after all.

And in doing so, he left them to put their trust in him as well.

Grif and Simmons watched him run towards the base, waving his hands in the process.

With a tilted head, Grif said, “Told you; the guy is suicidal.”

“Do you think he’s being serious?” Simmons asked, shifting the weight on his feet as the Freelancer stood in the middle of the field.

“About his apology or you and I being a couple?”

“Both?”

“I don’t know,” Grif said and shrugged. “The guy is weird.”

“Probably why he’s a Blue.”

They both agreed on that statement, sharing a nod before they both crouched in order to remain unseen as they slowly made their way behind the base.

It was an easier job than usual, considering the fact that Wash was currently calling out names from the top of his lung in the middle of the valley.

It wasn’t a chicken suit, but it’d have to do.

They saw the stranger leave the base in an aggressive hurry, heading straight for the noisy Wash. The distraction left them capable of jumping through the window, inside the base where Sarge was currently busy berating Tucker and Caboose for allowing the ambush to happen in the first place.

 “Sarge isn’t dead,” Grif said as he stood up. “That’s… disappointing, really.”

“What’s going on?” Simmons asked, looking from Sarge to Tucker and avoiding Caboose entirely.

“I don’t know.” Tucker shrugged. “Some crazy chick gathered us up and asked us who our leader was and she didn’t believe me when I said she was already looking at him. Where’s Wash?”

“Outside, distracting.”

Grif moved with the others to the window, trying to spot a sight of the intruder. He groaned. “If it’s another Freelancer, just shoot me already.”

“Which plan is he using?” Sarge huffed, eyeing Simmons for an answer.

“Number nine, sir. But with modifications.”

“No chicken suit?”

Simmons shook his head sadly. “No chicken suit.”

“Aw.” Caboose sounded genuinely distressed. “But yellow is his good color.”

“Also, did Wash hit his head again?” Grif asked, turning towards Tucker who shook his head.

“No. Why?”

It would have been a lovely plausible explanation to why the Freelancer had suddenly decided to break all rules about emotional traumas and when to speak of them. Which was never.

“No reason,” he said.

“Is he switching sides again?” Caboose asked him in worry. “Because we have to tell him no. Even if the scary lady is pretty.”

With a frown Tucker turned towards him. “What are you- Holy fuck.”

He was interrupted by Wash walking into the base – the stranger right next to him. Her arms were crossed.

Wash cleared his throat to gain their attention. “Everyone, this is Agent Carolina.”

The stunned silence was broken by Sarge who chuckled once, turned towards Grif and cocked his shotgun. “You asked for it, dirtbag.”

**Author's Note:**

> To the talented Jomeimei! I know your birthday was days ago but I am a little late but here it is! Wash is a pain to write, by the way, but I did my best!
> 
> This was supposed to be a lot angstier in my mind, but then I got carried away with the dialogue.
> 
> As always; English is not my native language so I apologize for any mistakes, and you can find me as riathedreamer on tumblr and twitter.


End file.
